


Monday Mornings

by Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awkward Romance, Coming Out, Crushes, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Happy Ending, John's a worry wart, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sherlock cannot compute, Sherlock doesn't like not knowing, caring is not an advantage, john comes out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-16
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:04:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16643399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage/pseuds/Caring_Is_Not_An_Advantage
Summary: There's nothing like Monday mornings. Sherlock especially likes them when John's there.





	1. Monday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! So! I know I've got Rise of the Flightless going on at the moment but I wanted to write something fluffy and this came out! This will be the first multi-chapter I think I'll ever finish. I hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> This is un-beta'd.

Monday mornings were always incredibly slow. Morning traffic echoed from the streets below and mingled with the collective murmur of the general public to serve as a rather effective alarm clock. However, on some mornings, one could wake to the sound of the kettle whistling as it reached the boil.

This morning was, fortunately, one of those mornings. The sound of mugs clacking against the kitchen counter having broken the generic and dull sounds of the early week bustle in the streets just beyond the open window. There was the fizzle of a tune crackling on the radio, unintelligible to the untrained ear; alongside it, the sound of singing that was light and carefree.

Sherlock finally decided to roll himself out of bed and made a blind grab for his dressing gown. He supposed now was as good a time as any to emerge from his room and pilfer some tea. As he cracked open his door he was met with the smell of bacon and his mouth began to water without his consent. When had he last eaten again? Following his nose he drifted towards the kitchen, muscle memory guiding him as his eyes closed to focus on the frankly delicious smell. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes sliding open once more.

Standing in his kitchen was John Watson. Well, it was more bouncing than standing as the short man moved from the kettle to the stove, the odd twirl to the music being thrown in for a laugh and Sherlock had to smile with a sense of fondness. John always made him smile. Him in his silly old jumpers and that twinkle in his eyes.

He had given up trying to figure out this confusing compound of sentiment and feeling. In the end, he settled on the idea of love. Love was a concept that could be applied to many people; family, friends, a lover. Sherlock hadn't dared to try and decipher which kind of love he felt for his doctor. After all, when could caring ever become an advantage?

He must have let a sound slip out or something of that kind because all of a sudden his flatmate's attention was on him, having spun around in surprise. John's blond hair was stuck up from persistent fussing, damp lips (presumably from the water he had sipped at of which the glass remained on the side) kept moving as though to form words, a question, but failing to do so. He looked somewhat like a startled hedgehog; the realisation drawing a chuckle from the detective.

"Good morning, John." He greeted casually, walking into the small kitchen to take the kettle off of the boil. "You're up early, aren't you?"

"Actually mate I'm up as early as normal, you're up early in fact." If John had wanted to conceal his surprise at all he had surely failed, Sherlock taking no offence whatsoever.

"You made tea."

"Very observant, yes. Would you like a cuppa before I go to work?"

"Tea and bacon? You're in a good mood today."

John arched a brow and watched his flatmate shuffle a little, seeming ever so slightly sheepish. What was with him this morning?

"I suppose so, its a nice day. Do you want a cuppa, Sherlock? I'll even share the bacon with you if you'd like. Sarnies okay?"

Sherlock's answering nod drew John's attention back to the food that had very nearly been burnt. It gave the brunet time to observe and tuck away thoughts into his mind palace, thoughts that were distracting. Like, how nice it would be to be able to lean on John right now, his long arms wrapped around the shorter mans middle. How nice it would be to bury his face into John's hair, the smell of his shampoo filling his senses. No, these thoughts were foolish, he had to ignore them.

Bacon sandwiches and two mugs of tea later and the pair were sat in their respective chairs relaxing before the day began. John had the paper in his lap and Sherlock was fiddling with the sash of his dressing gown, seemingly bored.

"So, what are you planning to do today?" John asked over the paper, not even daring to look up. "I know we've got no cases but surely you can find something else?"

Sherlock pondered this a while, umming and ahhing before shrugging and letting his head drop back over the top of his chair. "Dunno. Dull."

There was a sigh, slightly exasperated, before the paper was put down and the doctor gave Sherlock the eye. It was a warning. "Please, Sherlock. I don't want to come home to see you've destroyed the flat... think you can behave? For me?"

For John? Hearing him speak in that way made his throat close for a moment and a pang in his chest. It was almost guilt, guilt he felt this way while his friend was just being concerned. Mutely he nodded, standing and shifting over to the window to view the life buzzing away down below. There was nothing he could say, frustration building and remaining directed at his confusion. Why did he feel like this? "You'd be best off to work. I'll see you when you return."

There was no answer from John as he stood and grabbed his coat, keys and wallet. He knew arguing with Sherlock Holmes was useless, he just had to shut up and put up. "I'll... see you later then." He waved over his shoulder and proceeded to leave, heart heavy as he opened the door and stepped out onto the busy street.

Sherlock watched John begin to walk, gesturing for a taxi to pick him up as he went. He chewed the inside of his cheek, trying to calm his tension until he saw the man leave. He had to tell him. He had to talk to John and try to figure this out. He couldn't stand this.

"Tonight." He promised himself, "I'll tell him tonight."


	2. Monday Afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John worries about Sherlock as he goes to work.

Sherlock had been acting odd even by his own standards. John wasn't a fool, he could tell when something was on his friend's mind and he also could tell when the detective wasn't going to make finding out the problem easy. Forever the recluse, socially and otherwise, Sherlock Holmes was one to not let his emotions be known until he was at the breaking point.   
  
John had many memories of Sherlock locking himself in his room for days, weeks even, only coming out for some water or the barest food to keep him alive. He'd seen the man's face pale, cheeks hollowed and eyes dark, looking almost dead to the world. Never would he forget seeing those deep, wonderfully bright eyes look so dim, so lost. It hurt to think about, it hurt to the very core. John had wanted to help him then, he had been prepared to do anything and that stood even now.   
  
His relationship with Sherlock had always been a bit odd. Running around London at the ungodly hours of the night, chasing after the latest burglar, drug dealer, rapist, the list went on. It was fun and there was nothing like knowing the streets were a little safer now that someone dangerous was behind bars. But, that wasn't the only reason John had found he'd enjoyed these misadventures. He got a thrill out of being with Sherlock, revelling in his intelligence, knowing that the detective actually listened to him and it gave him a buzz he couldn't deny. He could recall fondly the times they had been handcuffed together, running through back alleys and trying to climb over fences; the way their hands had been intwined as to prevent one from falling behind. John had, rather guiltily, felt his heart begin to race with the contact. The warmth of Sherlock's skin against his own, the panting in his ear as they hide against each other in the shadows of one of the alleys. Sherlock's chest against John's, so close that they could almost hear each other's rapid heartbeat.   
  
John Watson, doctor, friend, was hopelessly in love. He could never admit it, finding it incredibly hard to accept it even internally. He was in love and it was with his best friend. For years he had insisted that he wasn't gay, that he and Sherlock were a thing that could never happen. Little did he realise it was the thing he wanted most of all. He wanted to be Sherlock's everything, it was almost embarrassing just how much he wanted it. Wanted him.  
  
"Stubborn bastard," he muttered, sitting back and gazing out of the taxi window with a frown. His face was full of worry lines, his time with Sherlock having contributed heavily to them; them at his silvering hair. "Let me help you."  
  
As he pulled up to his workplace he paid the driver and sent them on their way, adjusting his jumper and looking at the front doors with a faint smile. He could see the receptionist smiling at him through the glass, her face having lit up prettily as he walked into the building.  
  
"Good morning, Doctor Watson," she chirped, a hand fiddling with her hair and tidying it almost subconsciously. Her cheeks were painted pink, eyes large and wistful as he walked past her desk. She nibbled her bottom lip, making sure her back was curved and her particularly low cut top showed her... assets.   
  
"Morning, first appointment in ten, yea'?" John smiled politely, pretending he didn't notice the disappointment on her face as he refused to acknowledge her extra efforts. He could even see that she had applied a new lipstick, wore a new perfume, it was obvious she was making an effort. Maybe he'd picked up some deduction skills from Sherlock after all. "Thank you."  
  
He passed the desk entirely and closed his door, smiling with pride as he always did at the plaque with his name engraved hanging on the door. Entering his office space he took a seat, arranging his desk how he liked before casting a look to a photo frame on his desk. That prideful smile became one of adoration, his hand moving to straighten the frame just a little bit. The picture was a newspaper clipping of himself and Sherlock after their first big case, something he held rather dear. The crazy cabby, he remembered, the one he had shot to prevent Sherlock from doing something stupid. It was a miracle Scotland Yard hadn't caught up with him about that.   
  
Well, a miracle or Mycroft Holmes.   
  
Dinner that night had been some takeout back at the flat, the pair laughing and conversing about how the events of the evening had unfolded. John calling Sherlock out on the fact he, as Sergeant Donovan had said, got off on the thrill of a case. Sherlock had called John out on the fact he had so readily come along. In the midst of the adrenaline and the fear he had felt, John had nearly kissed Sherlock that night. He hadn't felt that alive in so long, not since before the army, and it was all thanks to this brilliant man who had swept him off his feet for the ride of his life.   
  
Determined to get out of his head he watched the clock tick down, awaiting his first patient of the day and stood to greet them. He'd handle Sherlock later, he decided, but for now he had a job to do and his patients would be his top priority. That was his duty.  
  


* * *

  
Lunchtime had rolled around relatively quickly, John seeing numerous patients in the meantime and finding himself much more relaxed when he could afford a break. He had left his office to attend the small cafe next door, ordering himself a coffee and a bite to eat before sitting down to check his phone.   
  
To his surprise, there was a text message. Multiple in fact.  
  
 **John. -SH**  
  
 **When you get back I need to talk to you about something important. -SH**  
  
 **I don't know what to do. -SH**  
  
 **I don't like not knowing what to do, John. You need to help me. -SH**  
  
Jesus, Sherlock had never text him like this before. Worry began to twist John's stomach into knots, making his meal suddenly inedible. His fingers drummed against the table, his mind whirring with what he thought could be the matter. Finally, he began to tap out a reply.  
  
 **Sherlock, do you need me to come home now? Or can it wait until I get back? -JW**  
  
 **I swear to god if this is just because of an experiment I'm not going to be happy. -JW**  
  
There was a delay, about three minutes, before the phone vibrated once again.  
  
 **It can wait, but I should warn you to prepare yourself. -SH**  
  
Well, that didn't make him feel any better. He almost had a mind to contact Mycroft to make sure Sherlock was safe and sound. Almost. Sherlock Holmes was a full grown man, an adult, he could survive a couple more hours before he came home he was sure. Whatever he had to prepare for, he was sure it wasn't as bad as the man was making it out to be.  
  
 **Alright, I'll be prepared. I'll see you when I get home. -JW**  
  
The anxious knot in his stomach hadn't eased any and John pushed away his place, drinking his coffee relatively quickly before forcing himself to stand. He'd eat once this mess was dealt with. For now he just wanted to get the day done with. Whatever Sherlock needed him for, he knew he'd be there for him.   
  
He walked back to his office and ignored the questioning look of the receptionist from earlier, resisting the urge to childishly slam the door in his frustration and then throwing himself dramatically into his chair. It swivelled a little bit, the motion soothing as John cast a glance at the photo once again on his desk.   
  
"Sherlock Holmes, you're going to be the bloody death of me." 


	3. Monday Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock face their feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY! So, it's currently 3:35 AM, I am knackered, but I have finished this!!! I hope you readers have enjoyed. If you have, please feel free to leave a like, comment etc and let me know what you think! Now, on with the chapter!

The taxi ride home was tense. John's left leg bounced in a subconscious nervous twitch he could never really get in control, hands clasped together as though he were in silent prayer. He supposed he was. Praying that Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, flatmate, crush, was alright and safe. He hadn't had any texts from the detective while at work, not after agreeing to come straight home and to be prepared for whatever he might find.   
  
As soon as his ride stopped he practically threw the money at the driver, jumping out of the vehicle and rushing to unlock the door to 221b Baker Street. He swallowed, taking a deep breath to try and steady himself. If Sherlock was in a bad state he had to be the calm one, he couldn't do that unless he took the time he needed to calm down. About a minute passed, breathing now steady, before John walked in and began to ascend the staircase.  
  
"Sherlock?" He called, hoping to hear a response of some kind. None was heard. "Sherlock, you okay?"  
  
Walking into the flat, John was surprised to see it shrouded in darkness. He blinked a few times, able to make out a lump on the couch in the corner, presuming it to be Sherlock. Walking in, he bent down to turn on one of the lamps on the table, seeing the form flinch and frowning.   
  
It was clearly Sherlock curled up in a ball, long legs tucked up with only the feet visible from the bottom of his dressing gown. His hair was all over the place, his neck appeared damp, as though he had only just gotten out of the shower. That was a good sign at least, even if the detective had just jumped back into his dressing gown.   
  
"Sherlock? Mate, can you hear me?"  
  
"Of course I can, John. I'm not deaf." Came the grumbled reply, relief crashing through John's mind as the detective forced himself into a sitting position.   
  
Sherlock's cheeks were flushed, his eyes refusing to meet John's in favour of staring at a particularly interesting spot on the floor. His hands fidgeted and he gestured for John to take a seat. He had never appeared to antsy, not to John anyways, but he knew this conversation was going to be somewhat difficult.  
  
"John, I need to talk to you."  
  
"Yes, I'd gathered. What's this all about? I've been worried to death-"  
  
"I'm stuck, John. I'm stuck and I don't know what to do." His voice was defeated, lowering in volume while John stared at him in complete confusion.  
  
"Whatever it is, we'll get through it." The doctor tried to be assuring, smiling gently and leaning to pat him on the knee. Immediately noticing how Sherlock tensed he withdrew, frowning deeply and gesturing for him to continue.   
  
"I don't understand feelings, John. You always have done, I never have. I don't feel things, not beyond vague intrigue or.. you know!" Like a child he huffed, not quite sure how to get his thoughts and feelings across for once and it was frustrating! "And thanks to you I have to deal with... with..."  
  
John's eyes widened as he saw the blush blossom on Sherlock's cheeks even darker than before, his own becoming flush with a soft pink. Was Sherlock saying what he thought he was?   
  
"I don't know what to do, John. I have these feelings and I know you wont return them, you've made your standpoint on that quite clear. I was married to my work before you came along and mucked it all up!"   
  
The outburst was sudden and the look of shock on John's face made Sherlock freeze, realising he hadn't meant to be so blunt about it all. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out, panic beginning to set in as he realised he must have upset John. He must of. The shock on his face was something Sherlock hadn't wanted to see, the way his face paled and his eyes watered and oh god, was John going to cry?!   
  
"Sherlock," the man started, taking a deep breath before shaking his head and blinking away the tears. When had they sprung up? "I... since when have you understood how I felt?" He tried to joke, seeing it fall short and rubbing the back of his neck. "I, uh... if we're having that kind of conversation I've got some stuff to come clean about too."   
This was complicated, perhaps the most complicated anything had been between them. Sherlock who didn't know how to communicate emotions and John barely able to confront his own feelings for fear of rejection. Rejection from who remained to be unseen.   
  
"Sherlock, I've been debating this whole sexuality for a long time. I asked you the first day I met you if you had a girlfriend or a boyfriend, you were married to your work and that was it. I never really thought about things too hard, just sort of... went with it? If it felt right I mean. What I'm trying to say is I've been questioning myself and I'm realising more and more that I don't care about gender. It's the person and its-" Stopping himself, John looked away and ran a hand through his hair with a faint laugh, "as if you haven't flipped my world upside down... I knew you were my best friend, I didn't realise I loved you until I nearly lost you."   
  
The unspoken days of Sherlock's past loomed over their heads for a moment, dissipating as a rather undignified sound left the detective's throat and he stared in shock. They remained quiet for a while, staring at each other and trying to read the room. John's heart was in his mouth, Sherlock speechless in the wake of raw emotion.   
  
It was John who made the daring move, leaning in to place a hand upon Sherlock's face and lean in; pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth as his cheeks burned. "I love you, idiot." he whispered, forehead coming to rest on Sherlock's shoulder as he went to his knees in front of him. It was powerful, the way in which his throat caught and the tears began to fall. He was completely overwhelmed suddenly, it a little bit much as he came to the conclusion he knew what he was now. In love with Sherlock Holmes.   
  
Unexpectedly, arms came to wrap around John's torso and he was hauled rather unceremoniously onto Sherlock's lap. His eyes were dark and determined as he leaned in to press a gentle, assuring kiss to John's lips. He lingered, not pulling away just yet as his hands moved to stroke his hair, his cheeks, shoulders, anything he could to try and bring him comfort. "Shh, it's alright John. It's alright..."   
  
"How is it alright, Sherlock? All this time I've... and you..."   
  
"I know, you were a little slow in realising but it's okay." Sherlock teased a little, seeing the smallest smile crack on John's lips. "Just... say it again, John. Say it again for me... and tell me you mean it." There was almost insecurity as he said this, his eyes flitting to John's chest. His own felt ready to burst.  
  
The shorter man leaned, pressing his lips to Sherlock's forehead, to his nose, over his eyelids as they closed and eventually his lips. He took his time, savouring the moment, before he placed his forehead against Sherlock's and looked him in the eye. "Sherlock Holmes, I... I love you."  
  
They spent the evening like that, sat on Sherlock's chair murmuring little bits of affection and love, exchanging kisses and tender touches. John ended up falling asleep with Sherlock stroking his hair, snoring softly as his face tucked into Sherlock's shoulder. The detective merely looked out of the window, watching as the rain began to hit the glass pane and giving a warm smile. Surely enough, Mondays like these were the ones that would be remembered. Sherlock found that he couldn't be happier, so long as his doctor was by his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh I never know how to write an ending!!! What do you guys think? I may rewrite this chapter in upcoming days, we'll have to see. I hope you guys enjoyed!!


End file.
